Chapter 3 - FLIGHT TO SUNSHINE
The hum of the jet engine was a steady, rhythmic purr in the dark cabin as the private plane cut through the night sky at thirty thousand feet.
Below us, the grid of Chicago's lights had long faded into the black expanse of the Midwest, replaced eventually by the snow-capped peaks of the Rockies, and finally the vast, dark emptiness leading toward the West Coast.
I sat in a wide leather armchair near the window, a warm cashmere blanket draped over my knees. On the small wooden table beside me sat a cup of decaffeinated chamomile tea and the sonogram picture I had tucked inside my purse two days ago.
A tiny, delicate smudge of life.
I laid my fingers gently against my lower abdomen, beneath the soft wool of my sweater.
"It's just you and me now," I whispered into the quiet cabin.
Outside the window, the faint glow of the wingtip light blinked steadily against the dark sky.
I hadn't expected Marcus to let me go.
When I placed those papers on his mahogany desk, I had prepared myself for a war. I had expected his security team to seal the property, his lawyers to file emergency injunctions, or Marcus himself to physically stand in the doorway, commanding me to submit to his authority.
Seeing him break... seeing the absolute terror and devastation in his dark eyes when he realized what Isabella had done... had shaken me to my very core.
My phone buzzed on the armrest.
It was an encrypted message from Simone.
Simone: Flight tracker shows you’re forty minutes out from San Diego. I’m waiting at private arrivals with hot soup and zero questions. Just come home to me, El.
I let out a long, quiet breath, typing a quick reply before setting the phone back down.
I closed my eyes, letting memory pull me back six years—to the night I met Marcus Vale.
I wasn't a mob heiress. I wasn't the daughter of a corrupt judge or a wealthy cartel baron. I was an art restoration specialist working for a high-end gallery in downtown Chicago. Marcus had purchased a damaged 18th-century oil painting at an auction and brought it to my studio to be repaired.
He had walked into my studio wearing a bespoke dark suit, flanked by two quiet, imposing men. But when he looked at the canvas, his eyes held a profound, quiet appreciation for beauty that caught me completely off guard.
He didn't talk down to me. He didn't use his wealth or reputation to intimidate me. He sat on a wooden stool in my dust-covered workshop for three hours, watching me painstakingly apply pigment to restored canvas, listening to me talk about history, light, and preservation.
We were married eighteen months later in a private villa in Amalfi.
For the first two years, our life was a whirlwind of passion and devotion. Marcus was powerful and dangerous to the rest of the world, but with me, he was gentle, protective, and endlessly attentive.
Then his father died.
The leadership of the Vale syndicate fell squarely onto Marcus’s shoulders. Rival families saw his youth as weakness. Federal agencies launched coordinated task forces. Internal factions tried to stage coups.
To survive, Marcus had to transform himself into a monster.
He hardened his heart. He built impenetrable walls around his mind. He surrounded himself with tactical strategists like Isabella Rossi, people who viewed human emotion as a vulnerability to be excised.
And slowly, without either of us noticing, the man who used to sit on a wooden stool watching me paint vanished behind bulletproof glass and blood-stained ledgers.
"Mrs. Vale?"
The flight attendant’s soft voice broke my reverie. She stepped into the cabin, holding a silver tray with a sealed bottle of sparkling water.
"We will be beginning our descent into San Diego in ten minutes," she said politely. "The pilot asked me to inform you that ground security has been arranged by Mr. Vale's West Coast detail."
My brows pulled together in a slight frown. "West Coast detail?"
"Yes, ma'am," she nodded. "Two armored SUVs are currently stationed at the private hanger. They have orders to escort you safely to your friend's residence in La Jolla."
I sighed, leaning my head back against the leather headrest.
Marcus hadn't stopped protecting me. Even as his heart was breaking on the floor of his Chicago mansion, his machinery was moving in the background, ensuring that no harm came to his wife or his unborn child.
"Thank you," I told the attendant softly. "Please tell the driver that I will accept the escort to the gate of the property, but they are to remain outside the driveway."
"Of course, ma'am."
Ten minutes later, the private jet touched down smoothly on the runway at San Diego Executive Airport. The warm Pacific breeze hit my face the moment the cabin door opened—a stark, wonderful contrast to the bitter, freezing storm of Chicago.
I descended the stairs, carrying my shoulder bag, and saw Simone standing near a vintage convertible, wearing a white sweater and jeans, her arms open wide.
"Elena!" she cried out.
I dropped my bag and ran into her arms. We held each other tightly on the tarmac, the pent-up tears I had held back during the three-hour flight finally spilling over onto her shoulder.
"I've got you, El," Simone whispered, rubbing my back as I wept quietly against her coat. "You're safe. You're out."
Behind us, fifty yards away near the hangar doors, two sleek black SUVs with tinted windows sat with their engines idling softly, their headlights cutting through the warm coastal night.
May you like
Marcus's men were watching.
He was keeping his distance, respecting my demand for space, but he was letting me know that he was still there—a dark, silent guardian sitting on the horizon of my life.
